“Pouff! Mr. Mayhew,” he expostulated indignantly, “I had a much better opinion of you. You have no pluck!”
So saying, he lounged out of the room, banging the door loudly after him.
CHAPTER XI.
“MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.”
In the meantime, Sir Reginald was walking rapidly in the direction of the Summers’ cottage. He reached the wood, which was thickly planted, and covered about an acre of ground. Spruce and fir made it dusky even in the daytime, and now in the twilight it was almost pitch-dark. Vaulting over the stile, he followed a path till he came to another stile, near which was the cottage, as Geoffrey had described.
“I’ve come far enough,” he said to himself, “and whilst I wait I’ll have a smoke.” So, leaning against a tree, he struck a light, and lit at least his sixth cigar that day. After five minutes or so he saw the cottage door open, and a white dog and a slender white figure emerge, both of which started off at a brisk run across the field, Alice collapsing to a sober walk as she neared the plantation. Stepping lightly over the stile, she advanced cautiously through the gloom, but descrying the spark at the end of her husband’s cheroot, she exclaimed, as she sprang towards him and seized his arm:
“Oh, Geoff! you good boy, I was half afraid you would not come. I never was more glad to see you—I do so hate this lonely dark wood. They say a murder was committed here years ago,” she added, drawing closer to him and shuddering. “Come, we must be quick,” she chattered on; “I shall get into dreadful hot water, I am so late, and I am so tired I can hardly crawl. Not that I mind, only Helen makes such a fuss if she sees me looking pale and sleepy. Why don’t you speak, you lazy fellow? you are always smoking. Who would think you had such an arm,” pinching him; “it’s like a blacksmith’s; the muscles feel as if they would burst the sleeve of your coat. I shall have no compunction in leaning pretty heavily, I can tell you.”
“Are you dumb, Geoffrey; or are you in the sulks?”
A sudden idea struck her. It was not Geoffrey after all; perhaps—agonising thought!—it was some utter stranger whom she had thus cavalierly appropriated.
“What have I done?” she cried, horror-struck, and endeavouring to release her hand. “Please let me go, whoever you are,” she pleaded piteously.
By this time they were close to the road, and by the light of the newly-risen moon she saw her husband, and stood aghast.